Gage's hand, holding the phone, felt cramped, and he realized he'd been gripping the plastic too hard. For someone to wait two years to take revenge showed both deep malevolence and extraordinary patience, especially in someone so young. Had Elliott also come back last week to exact some sort of revenge on his father? Had Ed Boone been pushed off the lighthouse? If that was so, then why show up after the fact and draw suspicion? Maybe Ed Boone had more money than he was letting on, and Elliott and Denny were hard up for cash. As the surviving relatives, most of the estate would pass to them if a will didn't say otherwise.
It seemed a pretty clumsy move for contract killers who'd avoided both prison and all other threats this long, but maybe their financial situation was desperate enough to warrant such a move. Plus, Elliott did strike Gage as supremely confident in his own abilities, to the point that it might make him a bit reckless.
"Still think this is a suicide?" Alex asked, as if reading his thoughts.
"I don't know."
"It'd be a hell of a coincidence, these two being what they are."
"Yeah, but kids grow up to have all kinds of jobs. Some work at Starbucks, some shoot people for a living."
"Funny. Just be careful, okay?"
"Always."
"You going to the lighthouse now?"
"Yep."
"Buy a postcard for me."
* * *
Heceta Head Lighthouse was located on a high, rocky bluff only a short distance from Highway 101, in a cove at the mouth of Cape Creek. While the lighthouse itself was not far from the highway, the parking lot was actually down near the beach, part of a state scenic viewpoint, and getting to the lighthouse required walking a half-mile trail.
Fortunately, even though Gage had not been expecting this walk, the path was well-packed gravel the entire way. After letting Lady do her business, he left her in the van. With his cane to aid his bad knee, and his fedora to shield his eyes from the bright sun and the mildly strong gusts off the ocean, he even managed to enjoy it.
No matter how many years he'd lived on the Oregon coast, there was nothing like the smell of the ocean. The trail meandered through a grassy picnic area and into mossy Sitka spruce and wild rhododendrons that grew right up to the bluff, the trees becoming fewer and more sparsely limbed the farther up he went. The surf crashing against the rocks below grew louder. The ocean, full of subtle ripples and undulations, stretched out to the horizon, where a very fine afternoon haze blurred the azure blue of the ocean into the cobalt blue of the sky. A few seagulls rode the strong winds with only the occasional twitch of their wings. He'd looked up the lighthouse in a recent tour book he had on the shelf, and the description asserted it was the most-photographed lighthouse in the world.
He could see why. Though the most recognizable photo of the lighthouse was from a distance, some miles south, the view was fairly spectacular up close, too. The tall white turret capped with a red roof was like something out of a painter's dream.
He passed the Lightkeeper's Home, or what was actually the assistant lightkeeper's home, the head lightkeeper's home having been razed in 1940 according to the posted information and was now apparently a B&B operated by concessionaires of the U.S. Forest Service. Nice gig. The two-story white house with the steepled red-shingled roof, surrounded by a huge lawn and waist-high picket fence, couldn't have been any prettier, and Gage was inclined to talk to the managers at some point, but he knew the tours of the lighthouse itself were ending at three. By his watch, he had no more than half an hour.
The gift shop was a plain white outbuilding just past the B&B. Only a few cars had been parked in the lot, and he passed just one person on the way up, a man decked out in REI with a big Nikon camera slung around his neck. Gage reached the lighthouse just as five Japanese tourists were entering the one-story side building attached to the turret. The Japanese were all busy snapping pictures of anything in sight. The wind, much stronger on the bluff, forced Gage to keep his hat clamped to his head. Seagulls cried and squawked all around.
The lighthouse was smaller than he expected, about the size of a small grain silo, maybe fifty feet tall and fifteen feet in diameter. From the narrow catwalk outside the lantern room, a glass enclosure surrounded by a waist-high iron railing, it was probably more like forty feet to the ground. Not that far. It bothered Gage. If a man wanted to commit suicide by jumping to his death, it didn't seem like an ideal location. Someone could easily, and probably often would, survive such a fall, especially considering most of the area around the lighthouse was grass. The harder, paved paths were far enough from the lighthouse that the jumper would really have to leap to have any chance of hitting them. The edge of the bluff would have been better. A rapidly sloping hillside was followed by a couple-hundred-foot drop to the rocks and then the ocean below.
No area designating where Ed Boone had died was marked—not surprising, since it had been over a week ago and no foul play was suspected. Gage stepped in behind the Japanese tourists, entering the tiny outbuilding and following them into the turret. It was cool and dank. He heard the tour guide before he saw him, a deep voice echoing off the red brick walls; the man was in the middle of explaining why the top was still not open for visitors: although most of the restorations of the tower had been completed a couple years ago, they were currently doing maintenance and inspections at the top, so there was no going up.
"This will give you all a reason to come back!" the tour guide said, with a hearty chortle.
Whether his audience understood him was debatable, but they did go on taking plenty of pictures. Gage, peering over the top of them, saw the tour guide standing at the base of a black iron spiral staircase, a black man wearing a green hat and tan vest, both clearly marked with Oregon State Parks logos. His beard, thick but trimmed, was just as white as his skin was as black. He had a deeply lined face and kind eyes. Seeing Gage, he waved for him to enter.
"Come on in, fella," he said. "Last tour of the day. Saved my best for last. Not that my best means much, but hey, I'm an old fart now."
He wore a laminated name tag pinned to his vest that read HAROLD, and it was clear that Harold's humor was lost on this particular crowd. No laughs, no smiles. There were a few appreciative nods, but then, they appeared to nod anytime Harold glanced at them. While Harold launched into what was obviously a well-rehearsed spiel about the history of the lighthouse and the construction and operation of the Fresnel lens, Gage studied the stairs winding up into the turret, thinking about the mindset of a man who would march up those stairs knowing he was going to jump from the top.
When it was over, and the Japanese tourists had departed, Gage approached Harold outside the front door. The man was fishing keys out of his vest. On this side of the lighthouse, they were shielded from the brunt of the ocean winds, but the gusts still swirled over the bushes that grew densely on the hillside behind them; the rustle of the leaves was almost as loud as the surf crashing against the rocks.
"Before you lock up," Gage said, "you got time for a few questions?"
Harold glanced at his watch, which, Gage was amused to see, was bright yellow and decorated with a Donald Duck's face. "Really supposed to finish at three," he said. "Is it something about the inside?"
"Kind of. It's about Ed Boone."
The next question Gage was going to ask was whether Harold knew Ed, but it was already obvious by the way the man winced that the answer was yes.
"Sad thing, that," Harold said.
"Did you know him well?"
"Just a little. But he wasn't a talkative sort, you know. Wish we'd tried a little harder. Why you ask? You related?"
Gage would have liked to tell Harold the truth, since he already liked him, but Nora's privacy was too important to risk it, especially with what he now knew about the Younger brothers. "No, I'm … I'm a writing a book."
"A book?"
"That's right. It's about the history of Barnacle Bluffs, and Ed Boone has a couple pages in it."
"Really?
Why?"
Gage told him about Ed's Diner, what an institution it was in town during its early days, and still was, in a sense. When he was finished, Harold shook his head.
"Amazing," he said. "He never said one word about any of that. I didn't even know he lived that far north."
"What did you know about him?"
"Oh, not much. Maggie—that's my wife, she's working the gift shop—she might know a bit more, because she actually worked with him when I came down with the flu a couple weeks ago. I know he liked to read a lot, and he knew his history, especially of Oregon. When he was doing our training, he was always recommending different books to read if we really wanted to dig deep into the history of the coast."
"He did your training?"
"Yeah, see, Ed was kind of head volunteer. Usually these places are staffed by RVers like Maggie and me, retired folks traveling around. This is our third lighthouse, actually. But I guess Ed filled in when they were between scheduled volunteers. And he told us to call him anytime we needed a day off. It's not rocket science, but you're supposed to have one person up here to do the tours and one person in the gift shop."
"Do you know much about how he died?"
Harold grimaced. "Well, I'm the one who found him."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"Yeah. Glad it was me and not Maggie, though. Or a random tourist, I guess. Just pure luck, really. We don't have to be here until closer to ten thirty, since tours are only from eleven to three, but I sometimes walk up here with Fresco early in the morning. We got our RV a mile or so up the road at Washburn State Park, so usually I walk him there, but sometimes I drive up here and walk the path. You know, to check on the place. Kind of feel like since we're volunteering, we're responsible. It was barely dawn. Couldn't sleep that night. Not that I've slept through the night much since 'Nam."
"Fresco's your dog?"
"Yeah. Swedish bull hound. Sweet boy."
"You want another dog?"
"What?"
"Never mind. So you found Ed?"
"Well, technically Fresco did. I hate to say it, but I may not even have noticed. Light wasn't that good yet, and he was on the backside here, just around the turret on the grass. I walked up the path, saw the front door was fine, and started to swing back. If Fresco hadn't been pulling on his leash and whining, trying to get over to the spot where Ed was, I probably wouldn't have gone over there."
"So he was on the grass, then?"
"Yeah. Here, I'll show you the spot."
They walked over there. Except for one of the Japanese tourists who'd climbed the hill to take pictures, they had the place to themselves. The wind rippled across the grass. Gage could see how someone could miss the spot. It wasn't visible from the front door, and unless you walked all the way to the fence, it was hidden from view. The grass, lush and full of white clovers, felt soft and pliant, uneven enough that he leaned hard on his cane.
Harold swallowed. "See that spot there?"
Gage looked. There was an obvious divot in the grass, deep enough that some of the wet earth was visible. "Yeah."
"That's where he took a header. Paramedics who showed up when I called 911 said it probably broke his neck instantly. So there was that, at least. He didn't suffer. But man, to go like that? Think what that took, diving straight down, headfirst."
Gage studied the spot and then peered up at the railing. It seemed so close. Hitting headfirst was probably the only way someone could die from such a fall.
"So he had access to the walkway up there?"
"Sure. It's closed to the public, but all the volunteers can get keys in the gift shop. Those work for the causeway, too, though I don't know why. Only maintenance personnel are supposed to go up there. Probably just because it was easier to make the keys match, I guess."
"Any other security? Cameras, that sort of thing?"
"Nah."
"Keypads on any of the doors, you know, that record the time? Here or the gift shop? Any way of knowing when he went up there?"
"No, man, this is a low-budget affair. Lucky that we even have deadbolts."
"Any chance you could let me take a look up there?"
Harold shook his head. "Be my ass if anyone found out."
"I'll give you twenty bucks."
He shot Gage a look, as if disgusted with the very suggestion.
"Or not," Gage said.
"Why? Do you really need to see it for your book?"
Gage thought about his answer. The Japanese tourist who'd been taking a picture on the hill was now trudging down to join his friends, his back to them. There was nobody to hear or see them at the moment. A seagull, struggling against the wind, banked hard left and right high above them, barely moving toward the ocean, but Gage highly doubted his winged observer would let Elliott Younger or anyone else know what he was doing. What should he say? He didn't know if he could trust Harold, but he really did want to see that causeway. There might be a clue there, something the police would have missed because they weren't looking for foul play.
"I have a confession to make," Gage said. "I'm not writing a book."
"You're not?"
"At least not right now. Who knows, maybe someday. I'm actually a private investigator, and I'm looking into Ed Boone's life—and death—for a client."
Though Harold's eyes didn't lose all of their kindness, a veil of suspicion did fall over them.
"For real?" he said.
"For real," Gage said.
"Can I see your license?"
Gage was surprised. Though he was registered in Oregon, and actually had the little laminated piece of plastic to prove it, hardly anybody asked to see it. He took out his wallet and showed the license to Harold, who studied it for so long that Gage started to feel defensive. What, was the guy going to say it was fake? Finally, Harold handed it back to him.
"Garrison Gage, huh?"
"That's right."
"Who's your client?"
"I can't say."
"You can't or you won't?"
Gage put the license back in his wallet. "If it gets out who I'm working for … well, it would just make things a lot more difficult than they have to be. I need to keep that private as long as possible."
"And what's Ed's suicide got to do with things?"
"Maybe nothing. Maybe everything."
"And how is seeing exactly where he jumped going to help?"
"I don't know yet."
"You don't seem to know much."
"That's often the case, unfortunately. I just bumble around until I bumble into something interesting."
"Doesn't seem like a very methodical way to do things."
"Nope. Other people do methodical much better than me. I'm good at bumbling. Can you help me?"
Harold adjusted his cap, frowning. "I don't know, man. I'm a big mystery fan, read a ton of them since I retired. Robert B. Parker, Stuart Woods, Sue Grafton, love that stuff. But I don't want to get in trouble."
Gage thought carefully about what to say next. Was it really worth getting a look at the top? Probably not, but it would nag at him if he didn't. He could already see that Harold wasn't likely to help him out of curiosity alone, though the man's curiosity could also be used to Gage's advantage.
"Harold," he said, "if I tell you something, can I trust you not tell anyone?"
"I guess that depends on what it is."
"Fair enough. You strike me as a man of character, so I guess I'll take the risk. But after you hear it, please know that it would help me, and my client, an awful lot if you'd keep it to yourself."
Now he had Harold's full attention, which was exactly what Gage had been hoping. There was something about being part of a secret that engendered a sort of trust that may be misplaced but was useful nonetheless. Even though there was no need because of the wind and because there was no one to hear them, Gage still lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"I think it's possible that Ed Boone was murdered," he said.
Harold rai
sed his eyebrows. "Murdered?"
"Shh. We've got to keep this to ourselves."
"But really?"
"I'm just saying it's a possibility that we're exploring."
"Why do you think that?"
"I can't get into specifics, but let's just say there's been a few odd things that have raised questions."
"And the police? Have you told them?"
"Not yet. I've got to have something solid first."
"And that's why you want to look up there? Because you think he was … pushed?"
"Again, it's just a possibility."
"Huh. Seems far-fetched."
"I admit, it does. But, Harold, in my line of work, far-fetched things sometimes turn out to be true. Not often but enough that I can't rule them out. I could really use your help."
Harold, chewing on his bottom lip, glanced down at his keys, then toward the keeper's house. Nobody was coming up the trail. Clouds that had been creeping in off the ocean moved partly in front of a sun that was already sinking toward the western horizon, graying the light. He sighed.
"You know," Harold said, "walking up fifty-eight steps is murder on my knees. Something about this Oregon weather really brings out the worst in my arthritis."
Gage pointed to his cane. "This isn't going to be a picnic for me either, buddy."
"Mmm. All right, let's go. We've got to make it quick, though, because Maggie wants to go to Old Town in Florence before the shops close. I can take you to the service room. Not outside on the gallery, though."
"The gallery?"
"Another word for the balcony outside the lantern. Some folks call it the catwalk."
"Are you sure? I'd really like to get outside and see the—"
"I'm sure you would. The service room or nothing."
"All right."
Gage was disappointed but it would have to do. Harold led Gage inside, shutting the door behind them. Without all the other people around, the inside felt larger—not spacious by any means, but certainly not cramped. Gage was also more aware of the smell of wet brick and plaster. Harold unlatched a chain over the bottom stair and the two of them started up, their footsteps on the metal stairs echoing off the walls. Gage was certainly capable of toughing it out at a faster clip, but he was thankful that Harold didn't push the pace.
A Lighthouse for the Lonely Heart: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 5) Page 13
